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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29164575">Not a Sunny Sunday</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/breatheforeverypart/pseuds/breatheforeverypart'>breatheforeverypart</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Watson the Service Dog and his Partner-in-health, Bucky Barnes [15]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types, Winter Soldier (Comics)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Based on Personal Experiences, C-PTSD, Dissociation, M/M, Mental Health Issues, PTSD, Partners for Life, Past Torture, Psychological Trauma, Relationship Discussions, Watson the service dog, as a service dog team, behavioral patterns, service dog, tasking</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-02-02</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-02-02</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-13 11:02:25</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,727</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/29164575</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/breatheforeverypart/pseuds/breatheforeverypart</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Steve and Bucky have a challenging morning.  Quarantine is challenging in many ways.  Relationships are also difficult to navigate.  Combine both, and weekends can be tear-inducing.  Hence, a Sunday morning that leads to Steve throwing a book and Bucky having a meltdown.  </p><p>Luckily, Watson knows his humans and applies his training to both Steve and Bucky.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>James "Bucky" Barnes &amp; Steve Rogers</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Watson the Service Dog and his Partner-in-health, Bucky Barnes [15]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1758628</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>30</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Not a Sunny Sunday</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Thank you for all the wonderful feedback this week!! I've been really enjoying posting these stories.  Please look out for the first chapter of a new story concerning Wanda this week.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>***</p><p>The book had shattered the illusion of the perfect Sunday morning.  It had whizzed past Bucky’s head; the air being displaced in a similar manner to the projectiles Yuri used as punishment.  </p><p>Steve had yelled.  He rarely raised his voice.  The authoritative tone had been Captain America, not his Stevie.  Not the man who held him when the nightmares made him vomit.  Or when seizures disrupted his ability to watch a movie with the team.  The man who threw a book and screamed in frustration, that man reminded him of another life.  </p><p>“Sorry.  I’m sorry.”  Bucky panted, his voice barely audible over the roar of his pounding heart.  </p><p>This was wrong…he made Steve upset.  That was wrong.  He was supposed to protect his partner, until the end of the line.  He said that all the time.  </p><p>Steve didn’t cry.  Even as a kid, he fought to control himself.  That power used to be a quality that American culture valued.  Now, everyone preached honesty and emotional intelligence.  Dr. Banner was an armchair expert on yoga, meditation all sort of new-age psychology that confused Bucky’s already bruised brain.  </p><p>Hitched breathing that bordered on hyperventilation snagged Bucky’s attention.  </p><p>His fault.  Steve hadn’t slept well.  Bucky didn’t want to wake up.  Sundays were unstructured, lazy.  Sometimes they slept in, especially after playing video games or watching movies late into Saturday night.  </p><p>Why was today different?  What did he need to do to fix the problem?  He always caused the problem.  Vines of guilt entwined themselves with the intrusive thoughts.  The combination completely obliterated Bucky’s ability to rationalize and ground himself.  He had to stop, he had to calm down.  He needed to help Stevie.  </p><p>“This is wrong!”  He cried.  “God, why can’t I do this?”  Steve slammed the table with a fist, denting Stark’s mahogany furniture.  </p><p>Bucky recoiled, his forehead tucked against bent knees.  He braced for the impact of a punishment he fully expected and deserved.  </p><p>“Buck.  I don’t know…”  </p><p>He barely felt any connection to his body.  Stevie was in pain.  He had caused the pain.  His broken brain had hurt the one man he would sacrifice everything for.  </p><p>“I’m sorry…I shouldn’t be like this…I” Steve gasped and rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands.  </p><p>None of it had been real.  Stevie threw a book.  He loved reading.  He loved books.  It was his fault that Steve was so hurt he threw the thing he loved.  </p><p>He whimpered and yanked his hair.  Pain made sense. Pain could quiet the voices that snapped at him like wolves.  </p><p>If Bucky could take responsibility.  Then he could fix Steve.  He would punish himself and take care of everything that may upset him.  Then everything could go back to being perfect.  A perfect Sunday.  </p><p>“Oh god.  I’m sorry.  Please, I’m sorry.”  </p><p>No.  He was sorry.  He hurt Steve.  He disappointed him.  <br/>He never wanted to do anything.  Or talk to anyone.  The life of a hermit led to a familiar cycle of isolation, depression and bad ugly coping mechanisms that did more harm than good.  </p><p>He was a lot of things; the internet started a lot of legendary rumors.  But one truth stood out.  Bucky was not normal.  He did not deserve Steve.  </p><p>Steve choked out something that resembled the man Bucky recognized.  “Thanks…no.  Go see Daddy.”  </p><p>He had broken the peaceful morning.  Now, his nerves burned as he questioned everything awful thing he had done during the course of their relationship.  </p><p>He was mad.  Stevie didn’t sound like himself.  It was his fault.  </p><p>The sobs that registered sounded far, far away.  Like he was on one end of the Holland Tunnel and Stevie was all the way in Jersey.  </p><p>Something wet poked his cheek.  Nose?  It sniffed, then sneezed.  Watson’s nose, his brain amended.  Watson was safe.  He needed to know Bucky was okay, but he couldn’t make himself move.  Time passed and staying in his body was all Bucky could manage.  Was it enough?  </p><p>He reviewed the day.  There had been tension when Bucky woke.  Steve had been awake for a while.  Long enough to be simmering with something that felt like anger.  </p><p>Steve looked through him as he scrolled through his phone.  He didn’t talk.  So, the tension had to be Bucky’s fault.  </p><p>He wouldn’t say what was wrong, so Bucky had to fix it.  </p><p>Fingers that had been numb, found their way to Watson’s neck.  They traveled the length of his head, winding curls as he remembered to inhale and exhale.  </p><p>Rumination gripped Bucky’s ribs so hard that he hunched himself into a literal ball of anxiety.  Every mistake he had made that morning played on an endless loop.  </p><p>He couldn’t choose what he wanted for breakfast.  Steve wanted to go out for coffee, with masks on, of course, and Bucky didn’t want to decide where to go.  He couldn’t.  In truth, Bucky didn’t care where they went.  Weekends mattered to him, because of their time together.  As a family.  The semantics did not matter, not to him.  </p><p>Steve wasn’t right.  So, it was Bucky’s fault.  Yes.  </p><p>“Bucky…are you with me?”  </p><p>Yes, but I don’t deserve you.  His thoughts clung to his anxiety and clogged his ability to use logic.</p><p>Watson wedged his head into the space between Bucky’s knees.  He can’t completely stop rocking, but the dog’s training slows the pace.  </p><p>“God, I’m sorry.  I’m sorry.  I need to stop.”  Steve sobbed.  The hurt in his voice stabbed at Bucky’s conscience.  </p><p>“No.  No, I’m sorry.  I’m sorry.”</p><p>“What?  No.”  </p><p>“Yes, it’s my fault.  I made you mad.  Because I don’t make choices?”  The confession turned into a question.  </p><p>Steve blew his nose in a tissue and sighed.  “No, you didn’t make me mad.  Not really.  I’ve been…bad I guess.  I don’t want to make all the decisions.  It’s a lot.”</p><p>“I know.  I’m not easy…making things easy for you.  For us.”  Bucky can’t look at his partner, but he’s talking.  The words tumbled out, emotions driving the force of the sentences.  “I’m sorry.  I don’t care what we do…ever. Because every minute we have together, is something I never thought I’d have.”  Their life is a dream.  A vivid miracle that he can’t help, but question when he can’t fathom the possibility that he’s alive.  </p><p>Watson licked Bucky’s ear lobe as Steve spoke.  “I know that there have been a lot of hard days.  A lot of things are bad right now.  I’m sorry.  Therapy is hard, meds aren’t working right and the pandemic is getting worse.”  Steve had proven himself to be a confident public speaker, but these words had a vulnerability that differed from Pepper’s speeches.  </p><p>“So.  The problems of 2020 didn’t disappear January 1st.”  Bucky mumbled.  “I don’t make it easy for you.  You having to take care of me all the time.  I’m always falling apart.”  He’d understand if Steve threw up his hands and walked away.  Why would any sane person stay?  </p><p>“No.  I mean, yeah.  But that’s not the problem.”  Steve bit the inside of his cheek.  </p><p>Bucky quirked an eyebrow.  “Yeah?  Me pissing my pants is romantic to you?  Seizures aren’t typically sexy.”</p><p>“I see you struggling, hurting and I can’t fix it.”  Steve swallowed and crawled towards Bucky.  </p><p>Watson wagged his tail hopefully.  Both his fathers were on the floor, which was his territory.  <br/>Life was good as far as the dog was concerned.  </p><p>Steve continued talking.  “I’m frustrated that there’s no straightforward way to resolve your injuries.”  </p><p>Watson whined.  “Sorry, bud.”  Bucky apologized to the dog, with his face still pressed into his knees.  </p><p>“He wants to be recognized for his hard work.”  </p><p>“You both deserve to medals for your service.  Don’t know if I’d be considered a noble cause though.”  Bucky straightened his spine, leading Watson to press his front paws on either side of his neck.  “Oof.  Stevie?”  </p><p>“Yeah?”  Steve scratched the poodle’s back, deep in thought.  </p><p>“Can we start today over?”  The request felt strange and needy, but Bucky asked anyway.  “Please.”   </p><p>“Always.”  He patted his stretched-out legs.  Watson copied Steve’s movements and yawned.  “Com’ere.”  </p><p>Bucky crawled into Steve’s lap.  Watson adjusted himself so he could rest his chin on Steve’s leg.  The hair of his fluffy top knot tickled Bucky’s face as he lay down.  The entirety of his body relaxed.  Steve and Watson’s warm heartbeats anchored him the present.  “Mm.  Warm.  Thanks, jerk.”  His cheek rested on Steve’s thigh.  </p><p>Steve combed his fingers through Bucky’s hair.  Touch had been a trigger for so long, that Steve didn’t know how to initiate contact anymore.  He half-expected him to wretch away and whimper, like he had most nights.  Flashbacks consumed their bed and destroyed any chance at intimacy.  </p><p>When he could tolerate being touched, there was nothing better.  Lately, the only time Steve touched him was after a seizure.  The groggy state after the convulsion stopped left Bucky craving support.  He clutched at Watson and Steve’s clothes, until he fell into an exhausted stupor.  </p><p>Bucky rubbed one of the belt loops of Steve’s jeans.   “Whatcha thinking about, punk?”  Watson stretched himself along Bucky’s torso, playing the part of little spoon in the snuggle-fest.  </p><p>Steve shrugged.  “He knows us well, huh?”  </p><p>“Mm.”  His eyes closed.  The hurricane in his brain had been downgraded to a storm.  He could hear himself again.  They were okay.  They were together.  Watson exhaled, his heartbeat slowed.  He was comfortable.  If there was danger, the dog knew to alert him.  “Too smart for his own good.  Takes after you.”  </p><p>“But, really, really good for us Buck.”  Steve scratched a patch of fur under Watson’s ear.  The poodle twisted, splaying his legs in the picture of contentment.  “He licked me, before checking on you.” </p><p>Bucky nodded, lacing his fingers with Steve’s.  Both their hands lay atop Watson’s head.  “He must know how much you mean to me.”</p><p>Steve pressed his lips to the messy bun.  Bucky’s eucalyptus and spearmint shampoo tickled his nose.  He smelled like safety.  “Like you said, he’s a smart cookie.”  </p><p>“Knows when a nap’s in order too.”  Bucky murmured.  Watson had flopped onto his side, eyes rolling towards sleep.  He let the heartbeats of his partners lull him to rest.  </p><p>Sundays could be unpredictable, but they usually ended alright.  How could they not, with the family Bucky had found?    </p><p>***</p>
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